Tomorrow Never Comes
by SassyJ
Summary: Set just after Conviction: Walk The Line... Stevie is in St Hugh's after Devlin's attack. Stu goes to see her. Stevie's choice between two very different men, Stuart or Smithy. And Stu's choice over a job offer. It's all in the timing.


He stood outside the room and fidgeted a bit. Surely, Stevie wouldn't be that interested in seeing him, but he had to find out if she was all right.

He checked the flowers he'd bought, and wondered for the fifth time whether he'd got it right. He had stood in that florist's feeling completely lost, surrounded by flowers, every size, shade and shape he could think of (and a few he couldn't). The florist had asked him what he wanted, and he'd dithered. He didn't ever dither, that most definitely wasn't him. He was Stuart Turner, strong, decisive... he didn't dither.

The florist had taken pity on him in his indecisive state and asked him who the flowers were for…a girlfriend?

No, he'd almost fallen over himself to scotch that idea, ignoring the funny little leap in his pulse, and the lingering feeling of longing. No, Stevie was a friend and colleague, that was all. He knew he hadn't convinced the florist--heck, he hadn't convinced himself. The florist had asked him a lot of questions about Stevie and her personality, and he'd answered without really meaning to give so much away.

He looked at the huge bouquet in his hands, and suddenly he didn't care whether they revealed how he really felt about her. It could never be, he knew that; she didn't feel that way about him. But he cared about her, and he wanted her to know. Through the window he could see there was no one in the room with her, so he pushed open the door and walked over to her bed.

She was lying there, so still and so pale, a little girl lost. He wanted to talk to her, mostly to reassure himself that she was alright, but she was asleep. He couldn't disturb her. He moved closer to the bedside table, very quietly, intending just to put the flowers down and sneak out.

"Where are you going?" Those guileless blue eyes were looking at him. She was wide awake after all.

"Er... nowhere."

She studied him. That sheepish look was on his face again, the one he had worn when she'd thanked him for the coffee pot. Half embarrassed, half pleased he'd got something right. The bouquet was huge: lots of bright colours, predominantly pink. He'd tried so hard to please her again.

Her whole body felt as if she had been trampled by wild animals. Her head ached, so working out the meaning of the look in Stuart Turner's eyes was a little more than she was prepared to handle. Still, she wanted him to stay. He looked as though he meant to leave. She stretched out a hand towards him. "Stay...please."

This seemed to please him, and he took a seat in the stiff-backed, understuffed chair next to her bed. "Sure, if you want me to." His uncertainty pleased her, a nice change from his usual brash confidence. They had a history. They'd clashed several times during cases, and Stevie always gave as good as she got. And once he had nearly died in her arms. So there was always something there between them. Right up until the night she had sat in his living room, and he'd fed her his microwave Christmas dinner for one.

The balance of power had shifted slightly that night. Something had changed between them. She wasn't sure what it was, but something had altered her fundamental perception of who Stuart Turner was. And a little warning bell rang in her head.

It was ringing again, right now. His hand was holding hers. She could feel his fingers trembling slightly, and she could see the emotion in his eyes. She could sense that tiny tugging at her heartstrings.

This was stupid. He wasn't her type, far too intense, too arrogant, too sure of himself. Smithy was more her type.

But he doesn't look sure of himself now, said a tiny little voice in her head. That anxious, slightly pleased look was back. The one which made him seem a lot more vulnerable than the confident, outgoing sergeant who would do just about anything to further his career.

If only her body didn't ache so much. She could still feel the toe of Jason Devlin's boot in her ribs. It was all far too complicated. Well, she couldn't think of that now. She closed her eyes. Stuart's hand was still holding hers, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. It felt nice.

"Talk to me," she said.

"What about?"

"Anything."

"Well, Eddie…."

"No, not about work. Something else." She squeezed his hand. "Something about you."

"What do you want to know?" His tone was very wary.

"Something real."

For some reason he couldn't fathom, he started to tell her about the last holiday with his mother, when they finally knew that something was very wrong. "It was the swimming," he told her "Mum was a really strong swimmer. And there was this raft, tethered out from the shore. We used to swim out and sunbathe on it." Even now it was difficult, the memories crowding in. "She couldn't make it."

He paused.

"Go on." Stevie's fingers squeezed his hand.

"Er..." He thought about it.

They had gone home after that last holiday, and that was when his world had started to fall apart. His mother was sick, his father had been unable to cope with the fact of his wife's illness and he'd left. Left them all alone, Stuart and his sister, with a dying mother who resented her son, and what her son had to do for her.

At first there was hope, and chemotherapy; at just fifteen, Stuart had learnt that he would have to do a lot of things for his mother. His life would be very different. He had coped. He had got himself and his sister up in the morning, and breakfasted. He'd learned to do the shopping and manage the budget. Managing became his mantra. Control was the thing he lived by. He argued with his sister. He fought with his mother, as the restrictions of her health bore down heavily on his shoulders.

Mary Turner was angry at life, and she resented having to allow her son to do things for her. Both the restrictions of her illness, and the resentment at having to rely on her child weighed heavily on both of them.

He closed his eyes, he couldn't tell Stevie any of that. It was too private. Too painful.

Picking his words carefully, he skirted some of the more difficult memories, and told her the bare bones.

Stevie closed her eyes, and sank down into the pillows. It wasn't what he was telling her exactly, it was the sound and rhythm of his voice.

~*~*~*~*~

She awoke feeling somewhat stiff, nothing that a hot bath and some nice bubble bath won't cure, and opened her eyes to find that she was not alone. He'd stayed the night.

Very carefully, she sat up. He was slumped forward, his head resting on his folded right arm, his left stretched across the bed, his hand resting next to where her wrist had been a few seconds before. She gave him a careful nudge, "Stuart."

"Huh." His eyes opened, and he peered at her blearily.

"I'm going home in a minute..."

"You are?" He eased back, and resisted the urge to yelp as his stiffened muscles protested. He glanced at his watch. "I had better get going. Can I give you a lift?"

"No, thanks... I'm fine." She suddenly felt curiously shy, then slightly guilty as he looked disappointed. She put her hand out and squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Stuart... for the lovely flowers."

He smiled ruefully. "My pleasure." He got to his feet, his back felt numb and his muscles ached from the uncomfortable chair. Feeling slightly awkward, he tried to think of something to say, "see you later" was the best he could manage.

As he walked away, he was kicking himself. Why couldn't he just say what he meant? Instead of all that stilted, awkward stuff. Stevie didn't want to hear sob stories about his childhood, and all he could think of was boring her to sleep with that story.

~*~*~*~*~

Stevie dressed herself with a little difficulty. She badly wanted to go home and sit in a hot bath and soak all her troubles, and this strange feeling of shyness away. She had never really felt shy around Stuart Turner before.

"Need a hand?" She nearly jumped, and spun round.

"Smithy!"

He smiled at her. "Ready to go home then."

"You could say that."

"Your carriage awaits."

Stevie grinned, and gave him a little punch in the arm.

"Oi... what was that for Miss Moss." He grinned back, attempting to feign annoyance. Stevie turned back to the bedside table. The flowers. She discreetly squirreled the card away in her pocket, and picked up the huge bouquet; turning back to Smithy.

"Make yourself useful then, you can carry these."

Smithy took the bouquet from her, he looked as though he was going to ask something, then clearly thought the better of it. He transferred the bouquet to his left arm, and held out his right elbow. Stevie's small slim hand curved round as though it belonged there. It felt nice, and Smithy smiled. Whatever was going to happen next, it felt good to have Stevie on his arm.

They crossed the car park together, neither saw the silver Alfa in the parking space two rows away.

Stuart put his seatbelt on, and reached for the key. He looked up.

Smithy and Stevie crossing the car park. They looked really happy together.

He sighed ruefully. He knew he had almost no chance with Stevie, and this confirmed it. But Stevie had kept his flowers. Just wish it was me, that's all.

He turned the key, he had a job to do, and an offer to consider. This was just one more confirmation that his choice was made.


End file.
